


Reciprocation

by GTRWTW



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Birthday, F/M, Fluff, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-23 16:53:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30058578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW
Summary: "Anything else happening this weekend, Strike?"Strike looked sideways at her. She only called him Strike when she was teasing or when she was annoyed with him. He wondered which applied."Should there be?""It's the 23rd on Sunday, you bloody idiot," said Robin.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 73
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueRobinWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueRobinWrites/gifts).



"So, are you ready for the big day?"

Robin smiled briefly over at Strike before redirecting her attention to the road. Her hair was loose and wavy, her cheeks rosy; she was a fresh antidote to the tedious morosity of near-constant surveillance. Strike found himself touched that she'd even realised; that she had understood the significance of the following weekend.

"Yeah, I think so. I always get a bit of a buzz, but this is the big one, isn't it?"

Robin murmured her agreement, surprised at his demeanour. She had spent an inordinate amount of time wondering how best to raise the topic. She had expected surliness, even rejection; but he seemed to be quietly excited, and Robin was glad.

Only six weeks earlier, Strike had given her one of the best birthdays - the best days, even - of her life: he had taken her to the Ritz for an evening of champagne and close camaraderie. He had been attentive and, dare she say it, a little flirty; Robin had effervesced with the hope that her hidden feelings were perhaps not as misplaced as she'd imagined. Now that Strike's fortieth was approaching, she felt a certain pressure to return the gesture.

"Do you - how do you want it to go?" she asked carefully.

"Honestly?" Robin glanced sideways and saw the playful look in Strike's eye. "I wouldn't admit it to anyone else, but I fancy our chances, you know. We might just get lucky."

Robin stared straight ahead, shocked, and all the breezy replies that occurred to her died on her lips before she could get them out. He was gazing absently out of the window, and he didn't seem aware that he had just said something that threatened to send his partner into an emotional tailspin. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Was he really being so casual about… that? 

Or was he talking about his chances with someone else?

Robin felt her hands trembling slightly on the wheel. "Really?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah. Side's strong, and United have had a bad run. And we're at home. I'm optimistic."

Robin exhaled roughly. She vaguely recalled that Arsenal were due to play Manchester United. Fucking football. 

"So that's, what, Saturday?"

"Yeah. And Tottenham have got Hull on Sunday. I'd love to watch Spurs get battered but I won't get my hopes up on that one."

"Anything else happening this weekend, Strike?"

Strike looked sideways at her. She only called him Strike when she was teasing or when she was annoyed with him. He wondered which applied.

"Should there be?"

"It's the 23rd on Sunday, you bloody idiot," said Robin.

"Oh. Right. Well, the best present I could get is a win on Saturday. Either way, I'll probably be celebrating or commiserating with a pint as usual, so it's basically a normal weekend."

"Grump."

Strike grinned at her. "Were you expecting anything different?"

"Not really." Robin continued to stare out of the windscreen, but she could feel his gaze burning into the side of her face.

"I've already had to tell Lucy I'm busy, and she made me give her an alternative date when I'm free, so there was no getting out of her enforced merriment. I have to go for dinner the weekend after."

Strike laughed darkly and pulled out his Benson and Hedges. He held the pack up to Robin, who nodded. Strike rolled down the window and lit up, holding the lit cigarette as close to the gap as he could.

"Why don't you want to have dinner with Lucy?"

"I'm fine with having dinner with Lucy. It's birthday dinners I don't like. I can't stand opening things while everyone watches. And I'd rather have coffee with Janice bloody Beattie than have 'happy birthday' sung to me ever again."

Robin was laughing despite herself. "You can't be serious."

"I am. Pet hate."

"What have you told Lucy you're doing?"

"Er," Strike rubbed his stubbled chin and took a drag on his cigarette before speaking. "I've told her I'll be with you, actually."

"Oh."

There was no reason for her to feel mollified. He had just chosen her because it made sense, because they spent most of their time together… There was no reason for the warm tingles that crept down the back of her neck. Robin rubbed at her collar.

Robin pulled the Land Rover into a space at the side of the busy road and killed the engine. She glanced up at the sign affording her one hour in the space. Strike saw her eyes flick upwards and grinned; Robin had never lost her innate respect for even the most minor of laws, despite having moved to a city where traffic regulations were flouted by the minute. 

Robin removed the key from the ignition and twirled it in her hand. She watched as Strike put his hand on the back of her seat and leaned around to reach for his rucksack from the back seat. His torso was inches from her; she could have run her finger down his ribs without moving her arm. She inhaled quietly, and the familiar, woodsy scent of her partner filled her senses. She turned her head away slightly, trying to convince herself that she didn't need air.

Strike sat back in his seat, rucksack in hand, rummaging through it with the other. Robin knew she didn't have much longer; he would disappear into his flat in a minute or two, and she would complete her journey alone. She watched him dig out his keys and took a deep breath.

"Well, do you have a few hours free in between all the emotional turmoil this weekend?"

Strike eyed her suspiciously. "I suppose so. Why?"

"Oh, come on. You know why. It's your birthday," said Robin, exasperated. "You did things for me on mine - I mean, you gave me gifts and took me out. I just want to return the favour."

"You don't have to give me anything."

"I know I don't have to. But I want to. I promise I won't sing."

Strike laughed. "You can sing, just not 'happy birthday'."

"Is that a yes?" 

Robin's eyes were wide and hopeful. Strike looked into them for a beat, thinking.

"Please?" she begged playfully.

"All right, fine. But this is just for you, not me," said Strike, smiling ruefully.

"In that case, I'll take you shoe shopping."

Strike was inexplicably beaming. He shook his head, noting Robin's smiling face and wondering, not for the first time, how someone so good and pure could be happy spending time with a miserable git like him. He resolved to be more positive about whatever she had planned. As long as - he recalled the one condition that he really didn't want to break.

"Just us, though, yeah?" he checked.

"If that's what you want. It's your birthday."

"Well, that's what I want."

Robin's smile was like honey as she put the key back into the ignition and started the engine.

"Then that's what you shall have."

Strike leaned over, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and opened the door.

"Thanks," he said quietly, and he climbed out of the car and into the fresh November afternoon.


	2. Chapter 2

On Saturday, Robin drank a cup of coffee sitting on her windowsill, looking out at the crisp London evening and wondering whether the things she had planned would live up to whatever expectations Strike had formed. She hadn't told him explicitly what his gifts and plans on her birthday had meant to her, and she was reassured by the notion that he probably didn't have high expectations: she knew he would be happy with a pint at the Tottenham and an Indian takeaway. Still, anticipation pooled in her belly and made her nervous. She checked her watch: she had less than an hour before she needed to leave. She took her empty cup to the dishwasher and then returned to her bedroom for one last look at her reflection. 

In a fit of playful rebellion against her former duties, Robin had chosen her highest-heeled boots and a slouchy leather jacket that she knew her ex-husband would have hated. She knew that she looked different from the way she usually dressed; she wondered whether Strike would notice. She wasn't blind to the fact that a lot of her decision making, now, turned on what he might think or how he might react, but she still relished her new freedom to choose. She knew that Strike would never try to influence or alter her preferences, and that made her attempts to impress him a pleasure rather than an obligation.

Robin grabbed the jacket and her keys, deciding to leave her handbag where it was and carry her things in her pockets. With a blast of nervous energy, she texted Strike and told him she was on her way, and left the flat.

*

The restaurant was small and cosy; exposed brickwork and sanded wooden floors gave it a bohemian feel. Long wooden shelves displayed abundant bottles of red wine and there were framed photographs everywhere: the owners' family, notable customers, newspaper reviews. A waiter greeted Robin by name and shook Strike's hand; in response to Strike's raised eyebrows, Robin explained that she'd been here before, several years ago, with her mother. She'd felt ever since that the Argentine steakhouse would be perfect for Strike, and she'd had a table booked since August. Strike was stunned into silence, and he sat down on the wooden chair opposite her in complete amazement.

Strike perused the menu, pleased to see that everything he could see appealed to him greatly. He decided on skewered steak wrapped in bacon, and smiled when Robin chose the same. Their drinks came quickly, and Strike basked in the anticipatory glow of an evening to be spent with Robin, whom he was beginning to realise was his favourite person in the world.

"So, not too upset, then?"

Strike raised his eyebrows. "Don't tell me you watched it."

Robin laughed. "No. But I checked the scores. Tough luck," she said, smiling. Strike looked adorably sulky, and she laughed some more; she wouldn't have been surprised to see his bottom lip stick out. But he shrugged and spread his hands wide, as if to say that there were worse things.

"It was a long shot. But anyway, still lots to be happy about. Things to look forward to." His eyes twinkled.

"Yeah, Hull beating Spurs, wasn't it? Tomorrow?"

"Did you study the fixtures list?"

"No, you told me." Robin took a self-conscious sip of her wine. "I pay attention when you talk, Strike."

"You do, don't you?"

She looked up; Strike was gazing intently at her, and he didn't break eye contact until a young waiter in shirtsleeves arrived with their meals.

*

"Go on, then, open it. I'll just wait here."

Robin covered her eyes firmly with one hand, pivoting in her chair, turning away from him.

"What are you doing?"

"You said you didn't like people watching you open things. So this is me not watching."

Strike started to laugh, and once he'd started he found it difficult to stop; Robin was sitting calmly across from him, her face pointed at an angle towards the bar, a hand clamped tightly over her eyes. Her nail polish matched her lipstick, and Strike couldn't resist taking out his phone and switching it to camera mode. He snapped a picture, and the flash made Robin jump and remove her hand. She looked at him accusingly, still smiling.

"What are you doing?"

"Sorry," said Strike, but he didn't look even slightly apologetic. The air crackled with their mutual amusement. Robin replaced her hand with a mock haughtiness that made Strike grin some more.

"Come on, get it open," she said.

Robin listened as Strike ripped off the sellotape at one end of the flat package and peeled away the paper. She heard the sound of the box being pulled from its wrappings and then turned over in his hands. She started to sing the only song she could think of: the one that had been circling through her mind since they'd arrived.

"And you throw your head back laughing like a little kid…"

"What -"

"You said I could sing, Strike, suck it up," she said, and she continued loudly. "I think it's strange that you think I'm funny 'cause he never did…"

Strike sat back in his chair, Robin's gift in his hand, listening to her sing almost absent-mindedly. He still felt the urge to laugh, but he felt a more powerful sense of genuine happiness spread through his veins. This was the thing he'd been missing, alone in his attic flat of a weekend, whiling away the hours until he could work again. If he'd had someone like Robin, enjoying his company and making him laugh, he might have had a bit more appreciation for his time off.

Robin slid her fingers to the side and opened one eye, peering at him quizzically.

"Cheater," he smirked. Robin removed her hand.

"You've finished opening it, so I can look now."

Strike lifted the lid and found a single, folded sheet of paper. He took it out, opened it, and read it. There were barely any words on it, but a list of drinks and various numbers. Strike looked up.

"Robin," said Strike, "what's this?"

"It's your score sheet."

"My score sheet?"

"Yep." Robin tossed back the last of her coffee and nodded towards Strike's empty plate. "I hope that's lined your stomach. We're playing pub golf."


	3. Chapter 3

"You have to drink the specified drink at each pub, and your score is the number of sips it takes you to down that drink. So this first one is rum and coke, and it's par four. So you should be aiming to drink it in four or less."

The first hole on the list was a relatively quiet pub, and Robin was glad they were beginning with a more sedate venue and drink. Having said that, she'd never seen Strike drink rum before, and it had been a while since she'd tasted it. She smiled as she saw his face; she knew they were in for an interesting night.

"What if I don't?"

"Then your score goes up. The one with the highest score loses, and does a forfeit."

"And what's the forfeit?" He was grinning, and Robin felt a tiny flutter in her stomach.

"Don't know yet. We have to decide on that."

"Should we decide later?"

"Okay," Robin replied, and she ignored another flutter.

"You do know that I'm about twice your weight," said Strike with a teasing expression on his face. "You sure you don't want me to have a handicap?"

Robin swatted him on the arm. "Bugger off. You might be bigger, but I'm younger," she said playfully.

"I'll go and get the rum in, then." His tone made it plain that he would tolerate no argument; Robin had insisted on paying for their meal, to Strike's disgruntlement. "Any preference on the type?"

"Spiced, please," said Robin. Strike nodded and headed to the bar.

*

"Come on, Strike!"

Robin's empty glass sat on the round table between them, waiting for Strike's to join it, the ice long since melted. Unfortunately, Strike had taken offence at the sweet taste of Kraken and was already one over par. 

"It's bloody horrible. It's like drinking treacle."

"You like treacle."

"Not in a glass with coke I don't."

He pulled a face and knocked back the last of the drink. Robin laughed as she marked six points against her three on the score sheet. 

"You're off to a flying start, Mr I'm-No-Lightweight."

"All right, all right. What's the next drink?"

"Cosmopolitans at Dirty Martini."

Strike groaned, and Robin laughed again.

"Let me see that list," and he grabbed the score sheet from over Robin's shoulder, smirking as she made a playful grab for it. "Where's the beer?" He scanned the list. "Fourth?"

"The first beer stop is, yeah. Shots first."

"You know we're going to be plastered, don't you?" Strike was emphatic, but he didn't sound displeased at the idea. Robin shrugged.

"Probably. But what's the use of turning forty if you can't get bladdered with your best mate?" 

"As usual Ellacott, you're completely right. Come on, then, let's go to this bloody cocktail bar."

They headed for the pub doors, Strike holding one open above Robin's head to allow her to exit first. His eyes fell to her legs as she walked, her tall leather boots finishing just under the knee. He'd never seen her like this; she usually favoured a classic, feminine style, but this was rock chick all the way. He grinned.

"Robin?" He fell into step beside her.

"Hmm?"

"You look fantastic, by the way."

*

Out of concern for Strike's knee, Robin had combined some holes so that they could spend more time in the bars and less time walking. She'd also had the foresight to book a table in some of the more upscale places on their journey. Thus they found themselves shown to a table on a mezzanine overlooking the rest of the smart cocktail bar, with a helpful waitress offering table service with a smile and a flutter of her eyelashes in Strike's direction. Robin ordered for both of them: two Cosmos, two sambucas; Strike watched her as she spoke clearly and firmly, and he pondered the reason for her sudden assertiveness.

When the waitress had deposited the drinks and retreated, Robin held her glass aloft and gestured to Strike to do the same.

"To turning forty," she said.

"Keep your bloody voice down."

"Why? Afraid the waitress might hear?" said Robin slyly.

"No. The last thing I want is complementary birthday sparklers in my sodding cocktails."

Robin snorted with laughter. "Setting them on fire might improve them. Shall we ask the waitress to make our sambucas flaming ones? I'm sure she'd be happy to come back over."

"What's got into you?"

"Nothing." 

She was smiling, but Robin's cheeks usually betrayed her feelings. Strike watched her blush profusely and a little spiral of intrigue shot through him. He looked down at his drink, giving her a few seconds to collect herself. When he looked up again, she was gazing calmly at him over the rim of her glass. He sat a little straighter.

"Next time she comes anywhere near, I'll tell her to bugger off," he joked, and Robin laughed.

Time passed in a pleasurable wave of banter and conversation, and Robin slid easily into a state of glazed levity provided to her by two wines, two cocktails and a sambuca shot that had remained flame-free. She was still ahead in the scoring; she had maintained her early lead by staying neck and neck with Strike in the drinks since. Both had met the par for the Cosmo and tossed their shots back in one, making identical faces at the strong aniseed taste.

Strike had kept a ready smile on his face throughout, joking and teasing and generally behaving in better humour than Robin had ever seen in him. For a quarter of an hour, he had regaled her with his opinions of their fellow bargoers. He had decided that the young men standing by the window were snooker-playing bankers, the couple at the bar were celebrating a five-month anniversary at the woman's insistence, and the women in the booth directly across from theirs were here purely for Instagram, but wishing they were somewhere else.

"Look at him. D'you reckon he's been stood up?" asked Robin, pointing covertly to a smartly-dressed man by the ground floor bar. He was looking from his watch to the entrance with anxious regularity.

"No, not yet. Waiting for someone. Keep your eyes peeled, though, he might yet be stood up."

"He's looking at his phone a lot," remarked Robin.

"He'll be on Tinder."

Robin looked sideways at him. "Didn't think you'd know what Tinder was."

"I don't live under a rock," said Strike, amused. "I've never been on it and I couldn't even tell you what the logo is, but it's always in the bloody papers. 'Man buys Tinder date a drink and then asks her to Venmo the money back'. These arseholes who think buying a drink entitles them to a shag."

Robin felt her face turn red again as she sipped her drink. She couldn't remember whose round it was, but she thought now was probably not the time to ask.

"Actually," Strike continued, gathering steam, "the arseholes are probably the Culpeppers of the world who think stories like that deserve column inches."

"Yeah, I guess," supplied Robin.

"That's the world, though, isn't it? Dunno how anyone manages to date any more. You used to go up to someone in a bar and just ask. Just talk to them. But you see, you can't now."

"People can't? Or me specifically?"

"You can't go up to that bloke, if you wanted to, and just ask. He's already friended someone on Tinder."

Robin laughed. "You don't 'friend' someone on Tinder, you swipe."

"How do you know?" asked Strike belligerently.

"Oh, get a grip. My brother's on it. You swipe one way if you like someone, and the other way if you don't."

"Which way round?"

"You really don't know?"

"No." 

Robin had a playful gleam in her eye. "So," she said slowly. "If I told you I'd swipe right on you, you wouldn't know what that means?"

"Swipe right…" Strike pulled out his phone, and Robin snatched it out of his hand. "Oi!"

"Nope, no Googling." Robin was laughing. The cocktails had gone to her head.

"Fine. But I'll get it out of you somehow."

"That sounds like a challenge."

"Shall we stay for one more?" asked Strike. "Or is that against the rules?"

"Well, technically. But it's your birthday; we can do whatever you want."

"If that's how it works, why am I sitting here drinking glittery shit rather than beer?"

"Because you want to make me happy?"

Strike looked at her for a moment, and Robin's heart thudded. She wondered whether she'd finally said the thing that took their teasing just one step too far.

"Ellacott," said Strike, "why the fuck are you always right about everything?" 

His voice was rough, but his eyes were tender. Robin glowed.

"So are we moving on, or staying here?" asked Robin tentatively.

"Do you like it?"

Robin shrugged. "Yes."

"Shall we stay for one more, then?"

This time, the libidinous waitress didn't seem overly offensive; Robin sat back, content to watch her bat her lashes while Strike ordered a second round of cocktails.

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely BlueRobinWrites. To be continued, hopefully soon! ❤️


End file.
